


there your heart will be

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (Semi)Explicit Sexual Content, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Birthday Vitya!!, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Yuuri Katsuki is smooth as hell and Viktor Nikiforov is Very Far Gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov loves surprises, and his fiancé knows this well.





	there your heart will be

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of lovely Vitya's 30th birthday, I finally wrote something angst-free! You didn't think it was possible, but here we are. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome) for beta-ing my smut in inappropriate places and being generally great and for the title, which is, apparently, from the Bible: "For where your treasure is, there your heart will also be." (Matthew 6:21)

_ > only a few more hours! _

_ > you should ask the flight attendant for some wine _

_ > to make the time go faster _

_ > oh they’re going through as SMS now, you must be taking off _

_ > have a safe flight! _

The texts pour in one after the other once Viktor turns off airplane mode. He reads each one over again as the plane taxis to the gate, imagining how the words would sound in Yuuri’s voice. It’s been so long since he’s heard that voice—phone calls and video chat don’t count, since he can’t tuck his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck and feel the vibration of his vocal chords and that sweet, low rumbling in his chest. Still, he has hardly gotten to call his fiancé at all in the past few days. The four hour time difference between Yekaterinburg and Osaka isn’t the worst they’ve dealt with, but their packed schedules had left little time for anything but rushed text conversations with hours elapsed between messages.

_Just landed))) < _

_Miss you so much(( < _

_I can’t believe I have another flight < _

_This is the worst(((( < _

Now, Viktor is not usually one to complain, but Sheremetyevo International Airport on Christmas Eve is a living nightmare. It seems like the entire country of Russia is attempting to fly in and out of this city which is— valid, alright, but Viktor just wants to be home, not be stuck in Moscow for a layover that was meant to be two hours but has just been extended to three.

_They delayed it again!! < _

_(((((((( < _

_Not getting in until 1950 now < _

_That’s so long!! < _

Viktor debates, briefly, calling the FFKK and asking them to find a different weekend for Nationals in the future, so that a skater already exhausted from days of competition and press conferences and interviews and sponsorship meetings and impromptu hallway pow-wows with those very same Federation officials about said skater’s “image” does not have to be stuck in a giant international airport on the biggest travel day of the year when their body is aching and their mind is buzzing and all they want to do is hug their husband and their poodle.

Beside Viktor, Yakov is grumbling something similar under his breath. Maybe Viktor needs to eat. He had breakfast very early this morning and he sometimes gets grumpy like Yakov when he’s hungry.

“This is such bullshit,” Yuri grumbles when he notices the red word _delayed_ next to their flight number. Yuri is not hungry, Viktor saw him eating a bag of chips on the plane, but he’s like this anyhow. Mila huffs.

“I’m going to go find somewhere to plug in my phone.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Don’t go far!” Yakov bellows as their heads disappear in the crowd. “You better be at the gate before boarding or so _help me God!”_

Every gruff syllable out of Yakov’s mouth puts Viktor’s nerves more on edge. He’s not sure he can take another three hours in this airport, then an hour on the plane, then however long it takes to get his baggage at Pulkovo and hail a taxi, and then the forty minute drive back to his apartment. He doesn’t tally up how long that would be. He’s not sure he wants to.

_ > hopefully they don’t move it back any more! _

_ > we’ll see each other soon _

_ > I promise _

_I hope so (((((( < _

_ > [...] _

_Yuuri? < _

_Are you there? < _

_ > [...] _

_ > you know _

_ > it’s dangerous to text and walk at the same time _

_ > maybe you should look up every once in a while _

Viktor frowns at his phone but does look up. Yuuri isn’t exactly wrong: there are hundreds of people around him and he is acting fairly oblivious, though he assumes Yakov will tell him if he misses an important sign to find their next gate. Viktor is pretty coordinated after all. Yuuri knows this. Yuuri shouldn’t be concerned—

—but it’s an awfully strange thing for Yuuri, six hundred kilometers away, to be concerned about in the first place.

Nonetheless, Viktor looks up. There are hundreds of people around him, moving in roughly the same direction at roughly the same pace and really, Viktor is fine. He’s about to look back down at his phone when a shock of jet-black hair catches his eye.

Viktor drops his phone. And his carry-on bag.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, rooted to the spot for only a millisecond before he lurches forward, shoving through the crowd somewhat rudely, but, “Oh my _god,_ you’re—!”

“Hi,” Yuuri smiles, waving sheepishly.

_Sheepishly._ What is Viktor going to do with him, oh my _god._ When there are only a few meters left between them, Viktor launches himself into his fiancé’s arms.

_“Yuuri!”_

Yuuri is soft and strong and warm. He smells like Viktor’s favorite cologne and their laundry detergent and has Makkachin’s hairs all over his sweater. His laugh when Viktor buries his face in his neck is like bells.

“I missed you too much,” Yuuri says, like it’s the only explanation for why he is standing here, in a crowded airport in _Moscow,_ instead of wrapped in blankets on the couch in their apartment.

“You— _how?_ It’s Christmas Eve, a last-minute ticket must have cost a fortune, just to turn around and go back, Yuuri, that’s— Wow. I love you. _Wow.”_

Viktor is rambling. He doesn’t care.

“Actually, it wasn’t last minute,” Yuuri admits, and he has the audacity to sound almost embarrassed. Viktor pulls back and looks up, finding Yuuri’s cheeks flushed rosy red. “And we’re not going home just yet. No more flights tonight, we’re relaxing.”

“You— how did you—?”

“Vitya, you need to take better care of your things,” says a grumbly voice from behind him. Yakov slaps Viktor’s cell phone back into his hand and drops his carry on bag at his feet, then nods at Yuuri with that same stern expression. “Katsuki. Glad to see your flight got in on time, at least.”

And, well. That explains that.

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry to hear about your connection…”

“Eh. We have had worse, yes? We will get home. I expect you both at the rink on Wednesday, hm?” He gives a firm nod. “Happy birthday, Vitya.”

Then Yakov disappears in the crowd.

“I can’t believe you,” Viktor whispers. Here he is, in Yuuri’s arms, bending down to kiss the blush off of his cheeks and the breath out of his lungs. Yuuri’s lips are softer than he remembers, even if it has only been two weeks. Nationals are the worst. They should never have to be without this.

“I got a hotel room for the night. I figured you wouldn’t mind celebrating tonight and flying back tomorrow, even if tomorrow’s your actual birthday. It should be less busy then, and I had us bumped to first class and we can drink champagne and Georgi is going to take care of Makkachin—”

Viktor quiets his borderline-anxious rambling with another kiss, almost too deep to be appropriate for a public space. “This is absolutely perfect,” he breathes, meaning it with every fiber of his being. It feels like waking up in the morning and remembering it’s a rest day—utter relief and contentment, made all the better now that he has Yuuri here with him.

“Let’s go pick up your bag,” Yuuri says, smiling against Viktor’s lips. “We have a long night planned.”

A shiver travels lazily up Viktor’s spine and his heart thrums with excitement. “Lead the way, darling,” he says.

…

The taxi pulls up in front of a high-end hotel near the city’s center, bellhops swarming to take their bags and ushering them to the front desk to get checked in. There are chandeliers in the lobby hanging from a towering ceiling and sparkling like diamonds.

Yuuri insists on checking them in himself, despite his limited Russian. “I’m taking care of everything tonight,” he assures Viktor with a lingering finger pressed to his chest. The double meaning, whether intended or not, is perfectly clear.

Their suite is almost as beautiful as the lobby, with an enormous, elaborately-decorated bed, a mini-bar, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the early Moscow evening. It is still light out, but the bed calls to him.

“We have some time for a nap,” Yuuri says, perhaps reading his mind. It has been over a year, but Viktor is still not used to that.

“I guess we should get cozy, then.”

They strip to their underwear and slide beneath the layers and layers of blankets. The mattress and pillows feel like clouds. He wraps Yuuri up in his arms, pressing his front up against Yuuri’s back from head to toe; just like always, they fit perfectly. His limbs and eyelids are heavy and warm and he drifts.

…

When he awakens, it’s to an empty bed and a darkened sky outside the windows.

“Yuuri?”

“In here,” Yuuri calls back, his voice filtering through the bathroom door.  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

When he opens the door moments later, Viktor has to take a moment to compose himself. Light spills out from the bathroom and Viktor blinks against the sudden brightness, but when his eyes finally focus he is rewarded with the vision of his fiancé in the tuxedo Viktor had bought him for his birthday less than a month ago.

It is not just any tux—it’s _Armani,_ tailored exactly to Yuuri’s measurements, and it had been a selfish birthday gift, to be sure. The fine fabric comes in just perfectly in all the right places, showing off his slight but powerful figure in exactly the way he deserves.

Yuuri stands in the doorway with his hair slicked back, glasses perched on his nose, and the bowtie hanging undone around his neck, and the combination is almost too much for poor Viktor’s heart. A little noise bubbles up from the back of his throat that makes Yuuri laugh.

“Like what you see?”

Viktor drags himself out from under the covers and stands, pulling Yuuri in by the waist. “Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri—” he whispers between kisses.

“Mm, you need to brush your teeth. And shower.”

“We must be going somewhere upscale.”

Yuuri smirks. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to wear this.”

“Darling, you don’t need an excuse to wear this, in fact I think you should wear it around the apartment, maybe our next rest day…” Viktor straightens. “Wait. I don’t have anything nearly this nice, just a suit from the competition—”

“Don’t worry,” Yuuri interrupts, inclining his head across the room. Sure enough, on a hanger hooked on the closet door, is Viktor’s own tux. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Yuuri!”

“Mm,” Yuuri pulls away from the kiss. “Go get ready. Our reservations are in an hour.”

Viktor quirks an eyebrow. “Oh? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise."

“Oh,” Viktor grins. “I love surprises.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“ _Yuu_ ri,” Viktor moans, “stop teasing…”

…

Viktor does, eventually, shower. He speeds through his five rounds of hair-care products and scrubs his body, paying special attention to certain areas he suspects he will want very clean for tonight. He dries himself off, washes his face, does his hair, swipes his eyelashes with mascara, all before he steps fully naked into the bedroom and sees that Yuuri has laid his evening-wear out on the bed.

“Would you like me to dress you, Vitya?”

Viktor’s mouth goes dry. “I… can’t decide.” He’s not sure that more clothing is exactly what the situation warrants, when Yuuri is looking up at him through long, dark lashes and offering his services and calling him _Vitya_ in the same breath.

“Mm, don’t be impatient. We will have plenty of time for that later.”

Viktor wills his body to calm down. “Okay. Then yes. Those tuxedos just look so complicated, I couldn’t possibly put it on all by myself.”

A smile stretches across Viktor’s face as Yuuri stands, picking up Viktor’s black thong while he’s at it.

“Then why don’t you sit down for me, Vitya?”

It’s the best kind of torture, being dressed by Yuuri. The cool material is smooth where it slides against his skin but Yuuri’s fingers are burning hot and leave tingling fire with every glancing touch. Yuuri zips his pants, buttons his dress shirt, and buckles his cummerbund, and Viktor almost doesn’t live through any of it.

The final touch is the bowtie, which Yuuri ties and re-ties three times before he is satisfied. “May I?” Viktor asks, gesturing to Yuuri’s own, still untied around his neck.

“Please.”

When all is said and done, they are quite the sight. They stand side by side in front of the mirror, fingers intertwined between them, and Viktor suddenly cannot wait to be out in public. He wants the entire city of Moscow—no, the entire population of Russia, perhaps the whole world—to see them like this, in complementary tuxedos with golden rings on their fingers, fitting perfectly at each other’s sides.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

…

The restaurant is only a few blocks from their hotel, in the center of the city but tucked in a hidden alley away from the tourists. They ascend a set of stairs, pull back a curtain, and are presented with one of the most romantic dining rooms Viktor has seen in his life. They are escorted to a table just in front of the fireplace, draped in white and set with fine china and silverware. The servers take their coats and set down their menus and the wine list.

“Yuuri, this place is beautiful.”

The firelight pools in Yuuri’s eyes and occasionally glints off of his glasses. His lips look deliciously pink. “Ah, it is, isn’t it?”

“It’s quite early to be eating dinner, though,” Viktor observes.

“It would be,” Yuuri agrees, “if we didn’t have somewhere to be at seven-thirty.”

“Oh?”

“A _surprise,_ Vitya.”

Yuuri orders them a bottle of white wine that the waiter deems a “fine choice,” which just about makes Viktor swoon like a teenager on his first date.

“Since when do you know about wines?”

“I, uh, got a recommendation.”

Viktor feels warm inside, and not because of the fireplace. “You have been very thorough in planning all of this.”

“I wanted to make it special for you.”

“Ah,” Viktor replies, though it comes out almost like a squeak. A teenager, indeed. “Well, I certainly feel very special.”

And then, because Viktor wasn’t far enough gone already, Yuuri reaches across the table to wrap his fingers around Viktor’s palm. “You should.”

The wine was indeed a fine choice, exactly to Viktor’s tastes. He has barely eaten today, and on an empty stomach the alcohol makes his cheeks warm and his head light.

Viktor orders a filet of sea bass that practically melts in his mouth and swaps portions with Yuuri, who ordered the salmon. They enjoy a cheese platter together once they finish with their entrées and then share a serving of panna cotta with lemon-passionfruit curd that bursts with flavor at every bite. It is some of the best food Viktor has had this year, but Yuuri’s company is even better.

“I used to dislike Christmas Eve,” Yuuri muses.

“Really? Why?”

“Well, it’s— it’s a special day, in Japan, all on its own. It’s a romantic holiday, so couples always go out on dates, but I never— well. I was too focused on skating for anything like that.”

“We have a lot of years to make up for, then.”

“Ah, well. It’s more than just Christmas Eve now that I have you.”

Viktor swallows and hears _now that I have you_ echoing on a loop through his head for the next five minutes.

“I’d started to dislike it, recently. My birthday, I mean.”

“Really? Why?”

Viktor laughs. “Does _any_ twenty-something figure skater like their birthday?”

“Ah. Fair.”

“But now there is… well, there is more. Than skating, I mean. A lot more. So I do not mind.”

“Even if you’re going to be thirty next year!”

“Yuuri! You are so mean! Just because you are still youthful and spry—”

“You’re plenty youthful, Vitya.”

“I’m an old man. You’ve heard how my bones creak in the morning.”

“Mm. I’m just going to have to spend tonight showing you how _youthful_ you still are, then.”

Viktor chokes on a sip of wine. It burns in his nose.

“Oh.”

“Actually, um, to change the subject a bit, since we’re in, uh, _public…”_ Yuuri begins, his voice low and his cheeks flushed. “I have something for you.”

There’s a tiny box wrapped in decorative red paper, small enough that Yuuri must have been keeping it in his pocket. Viktor’s heart beats in double-time.

“Before you get too excited, it’s from my parents, and it’s nothing fancy.”

“They got me a gift?”

“Of course! This is only part one, though.”

There is a little tag taped to the top that says, in clumsy English lettering: _Happy birthday and Merry Christmas, Vicchan!_

“She insisted on writing it herself,” Yuuri notes. Viktor pulls off the tag with careful fingers and slips it into his wallet before tearing at the paper. Beneath, he finds a small cardboard box, and when he opens that, something small and covered in bubble wrap.

And then, when all of the packaging has been stripped away, he is holding a miniature, plastic bowl of katsudon.

“It’s a keychain,” Yuuri explains. “For your… well, your keys.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor gasps, “it’s adorable!”

“Ah, you think so?”

“Of course!” Viktor fishes his keychain from his pocket and clips on the new addition. “Yuuri! Take a picture of me with it and send it to them!”

Yuuri’s laugh is sweet and indulgent as he pulls out his phone and snaps the picture.

“Tell them I said _arigatou gozaimasu!”_

“Okay.” Viktor hears the _swoosh_ of the sent message, and Yuuri puts down his phone. “They really miss you, you know.”

“I miss them. Have we figured out when we can go visit? I was thinking right after Worlds would be best, before the ice shows start—and oh, that reminds me, I wanted to talk about that, because the lady from Stars on Ice wants to hear back soon—”

“Actually,” Yuuri interrupts. His gaze keeps dropping to his lap, and his shoulders shift nervously. “Maybe we shouldn’t do any ice shows this summer.”

“Oh— oh. Okay. We don’t have, to, I just assumed, if you don’t want to…”

“I do want to!” Yuuri replies, and Viktor’s going to get a headache, soon. “But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Part two of your gift. I know it’s kind of last minute, but I, um, I won gold. At the Grand Prix Final.”

Viktor blinks. “Yes, you did.”

“And I know it was just a joke, and you didn’t really mean it as a… a _condition_ or anything, but it got me thinking, and I talked to my parents, and they offered a few possible weekends in the summer, and—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupts. “What are you talking about?”

There’s a moment of silence as determination sets in Yuuri’s eyes, pushing out any lingering nerves. When he reaches over the table to wrap Viktor’s hand in his own, his fingers are not even trembling.

“Vitya, I want to get married. This summer, in Hasetsu.”

The words surround Viktor from all sides, lifting him until he’s practically floating. His breath catches in his throat and his own hands start to tremble.

“You— you do?”

“Of course. If it’s what you want, too.”

“Yes! Yuuri, yes, _yes!_ Let’s get married this summer. At Yu-topia, oh, we could do it on the beach and have the reception at the onsen, and everyone can come and stay there, that’s perfect!”

“Yes.” Yuuri laughs. “That was the idea.”

“Oh! We’ll have to get new tuxes, of course, I’ve always thought of getting one in white, what do you think? Would that be too much? They can look quite classy, unless you wanted to do something more traditional Japanese? That could be cool and oh! Makkachin could be the ring-bearer! Do you have a ring-bearer in Japanese weddings?”

Yuuri’s eyes are shining in the firelight. He looks like he might be crying, except he’s smiling from ear to ear. “I love you.”

“Oh, I love you too.”

“We can plan the details later.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait.”

“ _God,_ me neither.”

“Vitya?”

“Hm?”

“Kiss me?”

And Viktor _does._

…

It is not until the Bolshoi Theatre comes into view that Viktor realizes what Yuuri has planned for the rest of the evening. Viktor had mentioned earlier in the year that, while he’d been to the ballet many times, he had never made it to Moscow to see the Bolshoi—which Yuuri, who had been raised watching Minako’s tapes of their performances, found slightly appalling.

“How in the world did you…?”

“Ah, well, turns out it helps to know the former prima ballerina.”

Of course.

Lilia Ivanovna Baranovskaya is a stern, grumpy woman who shouts more than she speaks and is notoriously difficult to please. But of course, she has quite the soft spot for Katsuki Yuuri.

And by that, Viktor means that Yuuri is Lilia’s favorite. By far. Viktor has attended ballet training with his fiancé and Yuri Plisetsky a number of times and had his ass thoroughly kicked—he could hardly keep up with the two of them, and Lilia would always have Yuuri demonstrate proper technique whenever he was doing something wrong. She watched him dance with her mouth pressed into a firm line, but not downturned as it so often was when she watched Yuri or Viktor attempt to move with the same amount of effortless grace. Lilia loves Yuuri for the same reason Yuuri’s skating first caught Viktor’s eye—he makes music with every movement. She also loves Yuuri for the same reason Yakov does, though he would never admit it: Yuuri’s focused presence challenges all of their other students to be better.

Yuuri, despite all this, still insists that Lilia Ivanovna does not care for him, which is utterly laughable but very _Yuuri,_ if Viktor thinks about it. Still, this means Yuuri had the courage to approach a terrifying woman who he thinks “does not care for him” and ask for a substantial personal favor, just because he thought it would make Viktor happy for his birthday. It is all the more impressive, then, when they enter the theater, present their tickets for _The Nutcracker,_ and are directed up the stairs to the entrance to the box seats.

Viktor loves his fiancé very, very, _very_ much.

“Yuuri…”

“Do you like it?”

_Like_ is a useless, meaningless word. Viktor loves, adores, is absolutely enchanted by every detail of this evening. He loves the way they caught the eyes of the who’s-who of Moscow as they entered the theater and preens at the thought of being recognized both with Yuuri on his arm, and with himself on Yuuri’s. He loves the privacy of their booth, perfect for wrapping his hand up in Yuuri’s and whispering comments low in his ear. He loves their view of the stage, completely unobstructed and usually saved for the highest of society. He loves Yuuri’s body pressed close to his. He loves dance.

And he also loves Tchaikovsky; he skated to _Swan Lake_ for his senior debut, which Yuuri surely remembers and has taken into account. He has not, however, skated to the _Nutcracker,_ but bits and pieces of an exhibition skate for two start to form in his head as they watch the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier dance their famous _pas de deux._ He wants to be lifted by Yuuri like that—his very own Cavalier.

When he mentions his idea to Yuuri after Clara awakens at home and the curtain falls, Yuuri grins and says, “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

(Maybe he can convince Yuuri to do it in tights, too.)

They let go of each other’s hands only to give a standing ovation; as they turn to leave their seats, Yuuri holds out his arm for Viktor to take.

“Are you ready to go?”

Viktor’s heart flutters, and he can only breathe, _“Yes.”_

…

The second the hotel room door shuts behind them, Yuuri has Viktor pressed up against it, holding him by the hips and kissing him senseless. Viktor’s toes curl in his shiny black dress shoes and his legs wrap themselves around the backs of Yuuri’s thighs.

Just when Viktor thinks he will melt into the wood behind him, Yuuri slides an arm behind his back, hikes him up on his hips, and carries him further into the room.

Viktor’s fiancé is so strong _,_ and so beautiful and _thoughtful,_ he is so thoughtful, and Viktor wants to tell Yuuri all of this over and over again but the words come out as moans around Yuuri’s tongue.

Viktor’s back is pressed up against the window now, the cold from the glass seeping through his suit jacket and dress shirt, a delicious shock to his flushed body. They are on the twentieth floor and no one from the street could feasibly make out any detail, but it sends a thrill down Viktor’s spine, the possibility of being seen like this. He is Yuuri’s, _Yuuri’s,_ and the world ought to know.

“Vitya,” Yuuri groans, “clothes.”

Viktor knows he should care about the state of their extremely expensive formalwear, but he cannot bring himself to pull away from Yuuri for so much as a second to hang everything up. The tuxedos—first the jackets, then the cummerbunds, then the bowties and shirts end up discarded in a heap on the floor, to be dealt with when there are not much more _pressing_ matters at hand.

They keep their pants on for now, but with the way they both strain at the material, that will surely not last much longer.

Yuuri likes to play with Viktor’s hair while they make out, and Viktor likes to have his hair played with. Sometimes the touch is feather-light as Yuuri threads his fingers through the strands but tonight, thank _god,_ Yuuri does nothing of the sort—he wraps Viktor’s hair in his fist and _yanks,_ his swollen mouth sliding down to bite kisses into the heat of Viktor’s neck.

With his own mouth free, Viktor is able to gasp and cry out and moan things like, “Yuuri, _Yuuri,_ yes, yes, _please,_ oh, Yuuri…”

And Viktor doesn’t stop, his words only growing less intelligible as Yuuri makes his way down, down, down, unbuttoning and unzipping Viktor’s pants, dropping them with the suit jackets on the floor, and then taking Viktor—

Viktor does not stop babbling, not once, and then he _screams._

They move to the bed for round two, laughing as they collapse in an ungraceful tangle of limbs upon the mattress. They switch this time and go further than the last, then after another breather switch _again_ for round three, which is something Viktor loves desperately about Yuuri: his stamina, yes, but most importantly, that he is willing to try anything and everything he thinks might bring them both pleasure. Yuuri is flexible in more ways than one, which cannot be said about every man Viktor has been with. None of them are even relevant now, with his legs wrapped around Yuuri’s waist and his heart held firmly in Yuuri’s hands. He knows, has known for a long time, that Yuuri will take excellent care of it.

Viktor rings in another year of life with Yuuri as close to him as he could possibly be and he screams his fiancé’s name in delirious pleasure.

“Happy birthday, my Vitya,” Yuuri whispers once they collapse, both sated and boneless and thoroughly wrecked, into the mattress. He traces little figure eights on Viktor’s chest with his ring finger and Viktor lets out a contented sigh.

“Thank you, my Yuuri,” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. _“Thank you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought <3 
> 
> find me on tumblr at [stammiviktor](https://stammiviktor.tumblr.com/)!


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